Learn To Fly
by Atomix330
Summary: Alcohol is not the solution to life's problems, it is certainly the cause of quite a few. Lamenting his loss in a London club, Matthew meets a beautiful woman before drinking himself under the table. An AU story from the end of series 2. It's 1925 and things are about to change...


**Learn to Fly – Chapter One – Anniversary Sorrow**

 _A/N: Hello, after reading a lot of Downton Abbey Fan Fiction, I've finally decided to start writing something that makes sense in mind in relation to this fictional universe. This is an AU as you will quickly find out. It takes place from October 1925 onwards. I'll put a bit more information at the bottom because I, like many people, dislike long author notes at the start! Onwards!_

* * *

"May I join you?" Four words that broke him out of his sombre reverie as the band finished their latest song. Today was five years to the day since the last major upset in his life. To commemorate the occasion, he was sat alone in one of the nightclubs he had become accustomed to frequenting since he came to London. Alone with only a bottle for company. He was well on his way to intoxication. Yet, despite this, he was still impeccably dressed in black tie.

"Yes, of course." Matthew Crawley turned to find a rather buxom blonde woman, in a black dress that barely reached her knees, smiling back at him. The dress accentuated her impressive figure and highlighted her elegant legs. She can't have been that younger than Matthew although his alcohol infused brain didn't compute that at the time.

"May I?" she asked brightly.

"By all means," he smiled tersely. He was alone, in a bar, faced with an attractive woman. What else could he really say?

"I don't think we've met before; Alicia Ashbridge," she held out her hand to introduce herself.

"Matthew Crawley."

"Well Mr Crawley, will you not get your lady a drink?" she smiled coquettishly at him. Matthew flinched at the word 'lady'.

"Uh-"

"Come now Mr Crawley, it's nineteen twenty-five, not eighteen twenty five. A man can buy a woman a drink without being properly introduced!" her smile didn't falter. She was enjoying embarrassing him for a moment.

"Well, uh-"

But Alicia had changed her attention to the bartender. "Excuse me!"

"Yes ma'am?"

"We'd like to order drinks. I'll take a dry Martini and my friend here will have a – what will you be having Mr Crawley?"

"Another scotch please," he replied holding up his empty glass.

The bartender proceeded to mix Alicia's martini.

"So what do you do for a living Mr Crawley?"

"I'm a lawyer. I specialise in company law up in Yorkshire."

"And what would a Yorkshire lawyer be doing in a place like this?" she asked, gesturing to the organised chaos of the nightclub around her.

"Drowning his sorrows," he shrugged. "When the band starts up, it gets so loud that I can forget."

"What are you trying to forget Mr Crawley?"

"A woman, two women in fact," Matthew replied curtly.

"Why are you here Miss – is that right – Miss Ashbridge?"

But the conversation was interrupted by the bar tender. "Excuse me ma'am, would you like lemon or olive with your martini?"

"Lemon please."

"There you go, one dry Martini with lemon for the lady, and a scotch for the gentleman." The barman produced their drinks with a flourish.

They thanked the man and resumed their conversation.

"Why am I here?" echoed Alicia, "I'm trying to move on."

"A man?"

"He died."

"In the war?" Matthew asked, staring into the amber depths of the whisky tumbler as Alicia sipped her drink.

"He fought. Did you?"

"I was in the trenches for two years. I'd rather not talk about it."

"My late husband was the same. He was wounded in October 1918."

"I'm very sorry to hear about that."

"Don't be. That war changed him. I didn't recognise him anymore. When he came back on leave, he'd be cold. Where there was once life, his face would be devoid of emotion. And then, one day, I was here, in town and when I got back from the railway station, I found he'd gone and found a gun and shot himself."

Matthew shuddered involuntarily.

"I'm the widow of a man who went and committed suicide in the dining room on a June afternoon. So technically I'm once again Miss Ashbridge…" She trailed off, studying the look on Matthew's face.

"I've shocked you haven't I?" she said coyly. "What must you be thinking?"

"That you were very unfortunate."

"I didn't love him by that point Mr Crawley. He came back from war like an empty shell. It was going to happen eventually, it was just a matter of when."

"Do you think that it ever changes? Miss Ashbridge?"

"What changes?"

"Love? Affairs of the heart?"

"The only constants in our lives are changes Mr Crawley. What happened to your love, or rather loves?"

"Lavinia was taken by the flu in 1919. We were engaged. I was her officer fiancé and she was my girl at home. I was about to break it off and the flu struck. She died very quickly."

"That's awful."

"It was my fault. I strung her along and played her for a fool. When I was wounded I had to send her away. But she kept coming back."

"She loved you."

"More than I loved her."

"And the other woman?" Alicia asked.

"Mary," he breathed.

"We met in 1912. I proposed in 1914 and she turned me down. We remained friendly during the war but I had met Lavinia and she had met somebody else. He wasn't good enough for her. She danced with me at her wedding and it all came back. That sensation of what could have been. Then I lost control, and tried to kiss her. She slapped me. I left for London that morning. I haven't been back to Yorkshire in five years. She's happily married and now lives in New York. I don't really want to go back to Yorkshire. Too many memories."

A calm silence enveloped them as they finished their drinks. Matthew downed his Scotch and called for another, his seventh that night.

"Why am I telling you all of this?" he asked suddenly, his voice slurring a little.

"Because you've had a little too much to drink and once I get you back to wherever it is that you live in this city, we'll probably never meet again. That's why you've told me, Mr Crawley."

"Please, call me Matthew, Miss Ashbridge."

"Only if you call me Alicia," she replied.

"Mr Crawley won't be drinking that," she gestured to the newly poured scotch. "How much do we owe you?"

"Just put it on my tab." Matthew mumbled. Before stumbling as he got up.

"Here, let me," said Alicia, steadying him.

"Why are you helping me?" asked Matthew slowly, his speech slurring.

"Because I want to, is that excuse enough?"

"I don't deserve you, just like I didn't deserve them."

Alicia ignored him as Matthew leant heavily on her shoulder as they left the club. Once they got out into the cool autumn air, she hailed a cab.

"Where to? Miss?"

"Matthew, what's your address?" Alicia asked gently.

Matthew didn't respond. Instead he vomited into the street.

After taking a moment to clean him up with a handkerchief she found in his jacket pocket and a rag given to her by the driver. Alicia gave him an address: "Crowborough Place if you please."

"Your friend had a little too much to drink?" the cabbie asked rhetorically.

"I would have thought it obvious. I only hope he doesn't throw up all over me."

"Well it would be me who would be cleaning it. So he better not."

"We're nearly there," she said as the cab proceeded at a stately pace through Belgravia.

Crowborough Place was a small, leafy square with two entrances and a small park in the centre, surrounded by tall stucco faced houses. It was typical of Belgravia.

"Just here please," called out Alicia and the cab came to a halt outside Number One, Crowborough Place. The number being illuminated by the street lamp outside the door.

After paying the cabbie their fare and with some effort, Alicia pulled the doorbell and was met a moment later by her butler.

"Poole, please see that Mr Crawley is settled in one of the guest bedrooms."

"Will he be staying the night, Your Grace?"

"I don't think he is any state to travel. Do you Poole?"

"Of course Your Grace," Poole replied, slightly abashed. "I'll see that Mrs Fleming is prepared to serve him breakfast in the morning. Will he require a valet in the morning?"

"I'm not sure, he will need somebody to change him tonight see that he has somebody to help him in the morning. Make sure he has a carafe of water at his bedside."

"Certainly, Your Grace," replied the stoic butler.

"In the meantime, you may help me move him to the drawing room. I can wait with him until the room is ready."

* * *

The next morning, Matthew Crawley woke in unfamiliar pyjamas, between unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar house. He saw that his clothes from the night before neatly folded on a chair by the bed. He got dressed before spying a tasselled bell pull. He pulled upon it and moments later a man in a footman's livery knocked on his door. Whilst he waited, he realised he had little in the way of knowledge of what happened the night before.

"Good morning sir, I'm Arthur. Her Grace said you may need some help this morning."

"Her Grace?" asked a confused Matthew. "Where the hell am I?"

* * *

 _A/N: Where the hell is Matthew? I'm sure the more astute of you have worked an idea. As for the general arc of the story, I haven't yet decided whether the result will be Matthew and Mary happily ever after. What I can tell you is that canon is followed at least until the end of season two. Lavinia is dead. Mary and Carlisle marry. Sybil stays alive – beauty of artistic licence within fictional universes._

 _If you want a visual reference for Alicia, think of Alice Eve, the British actress._

 _The title of this tale is a reference to the Foo Fighters' song of the same name._

 _Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback, be it positive or negative in the form of a comment or a favourite or a follow. Hopefully I can get more up soon! Until next time!_


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